"W. Michael Gear - Spider 2 - Way Of Spider" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gear W Michael)ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The production of this manuscript in its present form would have been impossible without the vital input of a handful of key people. I owe a great deal to my cherished wife, Kathy, who spent countless hours reading, commenting and correcting. You wouldn't be reading this were it not for her. Sharon Jarvis, my agent at the time, did a wonderful job working with DAW. My ex-editor mother, Katherine P. Cook, provided her years of journalistic insight and keen judgment. And finally, editors remain the overworked, unsung heroes of the publishing business. With pleasure, therefore, I would like to acknowledge Sheila Gilbert, of DAW Books, for the incredibly perceptive comments and salient suggestions she provided. The book is stronger as a result. Thank you all. CHAPTER 1.Spider would decide the fate of a planet. Men and women peered upward into the flickering darkness, anxious, mouths working silently as jagged fingers of actinic death ripped the soundless heavens above. Evil strobes of violet boiled from one part of the heavens, searing the cloud cover, rolling across the arch of the night to pulse in weird lavender. Star lightning-frightening in its unworldly silence-wove back and forth over the village as starships flashed death beyond any Romanan's comprehension. Hushed voices, abstracted and unreal, whispered in awe to either side of Susan Smith Andojar. She looked around her as another streak of violet illuminated angular, weatherhardened faces; their strength, spirit, and character betrayed by the squint of an eye, the set of a hard mouth. Tension-so common to her Wrinkled, age-battered old men, dark eyes gleaming, peered upward, fighting their failing vision. Twisted mahogany lips pulled over toothless gums in a rictus of dread and hope. Silent, terror-locked women-some young, some oldstood, helpless. Others sat on gay-colored wool blankets spread over hard-packed dirt, or perched in the beds of wagons and leaned against pillows made of coats, packs and hides. Here and there arms cradled an infant who slept soundly, heedless of the searing arcs of death overhead. The few warriors glared helplessly upward. Impotent agony glazed their eyes. At each flash of the star weapons they shifted, shaking rifles futiiely at the cloud-masked sky, fingering the human-hair coups dangling from their vests and belts-knowing they missed the greatest opportunity for status and honor to befall the People since the revolt against the Sobyets so long ago. Man, woman, and child, they prayed to Spider-prayed the star death would end, leaving their world alive. Susan snugged her worn blanket tightly around her shoulders and walked slowly from the crowd. Even while death glittered in the skies, she existed separately, alone, mocked by Spider. As so often before, she sought sanctuary within, away from her dead parents' people. In the deadly dancing lights, she followed the way she knew by heart. Climbing up on the corral poles, she leaned against one of the big posts, watching the eerie skies, waiting, wondering. The clouds had drifted, scudding rapidly to the east. A painful actinic brilliance burst across the tortured sky. She pulled the coarse wool blanket |
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